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Fad lOOl/Spnns 2.003 

Editor's Note: 

We realize there are a few of you whose submissions were not 
included in this issue. Due to last minute changes in the staff respon- 
sible for the creation of this magazine, many of the names that went 
along with the artwork and the poetry /prose were lost in the switch. 
If you feel yours was one of the pieces that was overlooked, please 
feel free to contact the Voices office and leave your name, a number 
where you can be reached, and a brief description of the work you 
submitted. We will do everything we can to get it in our next 
publication. We apologize for any inconvienience this may have 

While not everyone's works are included here, we think you will 
find this issue especially interesting. We have some great artwork, 
photography, poetry and prose. If you didn't submit your work and 
would like a chance at being in our next publication, please direct all 
inquiries to the phone number listed in the box below. 

*Thanks for all the great contributions! 

-The Voices Staff 

*Back cover artwork by Tiffanie Townsend; front inside cover artwork by 
Craig J Laudicina; back inside cover artwork by Cathleen Stark 

Voices accepts for consideration submissions of poetry and 
fiction, as well as artwork in any form. Send submissions, along 
with a short biography and a SASE to: Editors, Voices, Division 
of Composition and Literature, Rock Valley College, Rockford, 
IL 61114. Voices assumes no responsibility for unsolicited 
contributions. Voices is published by Rock Valley College. 
To become an editor, enroll in JRN 139 - Small Magazine 
Production. This 2-credit course is offered every semester. For 
information, call (815) 921-3322. 

Artworkby: Raven Johnson 

By: Devin Henry 

My today is very quiet some what calm. There is jazzed out background music which in my opinion is always needed for 
this necessary mood along with your life's soundtrack.. All I get to hear is my pen writing for now my necessary noise is 
zoned out thanks to my more than willing wandering mind, thanks brain I told my halted self quite sarcastically. It might just 
be the excess of coffee running through my body that I am thinking my thoughts, of now and before. But like I said no 
more music now just my pen writing louder and louder so I try telling him to try to be a little quieter but he just keeps 
writing. Then it becomes apparent the unspoken cliche my head says is false at least in this situation because I own this pen 
he does not own me, but the words this pens is writing those are his he possess them. My thoughts though these are mine 
not his. The thing I could wish is that my mind could hold my pen and maybe bend him in such ways that my mind's pen 
would write down every thought that runs, not literally running obviously, and hand it to my eyes to read. I know it is a 
wondrous wish but it would save a hell of a lot of time but why should I be in such a hurry to save time because then I 
would need something to put in the space that I saved, in fact I think I just did oh well life always going to be the big cycle 
it is. Any ways maybe my perspective is a tad off and everything might already be doing this wish in which I have already 
placed whatever in the open saved space, whatever screw this cycle I like what I think and possess so why wish for 
change when your content, "write"?"""right" 


Not with theblossom 
lodges the thorn 
But in my heart 
Conjuring lost love 

The Day 

The yellow noise of daybreak 
Thepurplesplashof twilight 
Complements of Day 
YeUd the charcoal hush 
Of night 


A crust of white snow 
Thin gray shadows 
Sterile and cold 

Wind Proof 

A kite 

Tugging against it's leash 


Capriciously darting and swirling 

Such are the metaphors 


Poems by: 

\ Mj 

Photo by: HtonTrojniar 

Artwork by: Caitlin Derrington 

Award Winner! 

Artwork by: Jason Huntress 
Candlelight by Craig J Laudicina 


By: Sarah Premo 

A speck of dust is how I feel. 

My life aU summed up. 

All of what I've done, no one noticed. 

All of what I've tried to do, no one 


All of what Id like to do, no one cares. 

Insignificant little speck. 

A speck of no importance. 

No one will notice when this speck is 

Yet sadly I know they will, and it brings 

me to tears. 

This speck is tired of being small and 


This speck wants to be noticed, 

Yet doesn't know how. 

A speck of dust is how I feel, 

My life all summed up. 


By: Darcy Breault 

The world is comforted by it's own slumber 

While I Ue awake with a burden 

Much greater than the mislabeled emotional 

concrete wall 

We know as the ego. 

The world is asleep in a dream 

A dream I have awaken to. 

Awake, I am left without words for this glorious 


Somehow Ibegan this journey 

I became lost as I passed the setting sun. 

And as I surrender to my fears 

I began to anxiously await my own return. 

But somewhere my reflection caught the I 

That reflects with programmed pleasure 

All the chaos and drama our minds' posses. 

In an instant, which spans a lifetime 

I experienced the reality of our nightmare and I 

cried out in this beauty. 

Knowingmyhandswere filled with unconditional 


I arose from the shroud called Uf e to see 

Even God inspired by my awareness of the 


Now, the darkness of sleepless nights 

Shed rays of energy never felt by the sun 

And I see that I am the dream. 

The burden, merely a gift of life itself 

However, it is difficult to balance this truth 

Simply because you are still asleep. 

Students achieving Oneness will move on to 


- Woody Allen 

Photo by: DevinHeury 

By: Raven Johnson 

Counted Out 
By Jason Huntress 

So, Frank was tellin' me 

He was tellin' me it was all wrong 


don't wake up 

don't look 

don't even try it 
They've already got it won, right? 

The world ended years ago - 
we're just here to watch it fall 


Don't dare stand up. 

It's not "stand and be counted" 
it's be counted' against 
'Cause being true's not a bit 
about being like everyone else. 

Or revel in the wrongness 
They said 

"Yeah, we all changed the world 
in those days 

Then we gave up." 

And now it's your turn to give up. 


Or, maybe you're not dead yet. 
So. . . like Frank was tellin' me. 
It's on you, now. 

Lauren Olivia Photograph By: Craig J Laudicina 

May you live to be 100, and the last voice you hear be mine. - Frank Sinatra 

Life is like a thing you throw 
out and then need. 

-Brad Hoffman 


by Craig J Laudicina 

Painting below by Rachel Bommer 

A Fighters Diary 

Everything sad was in that little black book. Truly, its once innocent, once blank pages were now corrupted with everything that ranged from her random 
discordant scribblings to small depressing caricatures that shed made of herself. It was a miserable outlet, to be sure, but within that beat up, fake vinyl cover there 
awaited the reader raw, unadulterated emotion oft expressed when there was no other means for Kaiden to do so. In that book was Kaidens dark side, the side she 
kept closed off from the world, the side that threatened to overtake her. 

The book had begun, as noted before, innocently enough. When times were rough, Kaiden found herself using the book as a means to organize her own 
troubled thoughts and feelings, but she mostly just drew ftinny little pictures. Yet this process soon became inadequate as her inner turbulence inexplicably reached 
newer and newer thresholds. Soon, all her pain and confusion would be transferred into little book, that little testament of her njrmoil and frustration and then. . . well, 
to be honest, there never really was an and then. It just seemed like a good idea that eventually got blown all out of proportion. 

Kaiden was by no means proud of that scrapbook of personal misery; she had actually grown to hate it, in fact. After all, the book had never really solved 
anything. Kaidens problems hurt her no less, and her agony felt no less acute because of the book, which was the precise reason that the girl was loudly clattering 
through her kitchen utensil drawer looking for the sharpest blade she could find. 

It was to no real avail, however. Being a vegetarian who lived alone, she had no steak knives and a butter knife, well, literally just wouldn't cut it. Still, 
Kaiden knew that she had to act quickly before her resolve melted into a useless acquiescent puddle. Fueled by this sense of urgency, Kaiden remembered that she 
did indeed have an appropriate tool, a small, folding pocketknife that shed received as a gift from her father before he passed on. Kaiden had never even used it, so 
she was sure it was still sharp enough for her needs. 

Then, an odd pang hit her. Was it wrong to use something so sentimental for such a grisly end? It was intended as a gift from her father, his deeply 
personal and polite way of saying. Although I wanted a son, you're still all right. 

What, Kaiden wondered, did it matter as she irritably tore through her underwear drawer, casually casting a colorful assortment of a few cotton panties 
and several plaid boxers all over her already messy room until she finally found what she sought. 

The Swiss Army knife, still in the original red cardboard box peeked shyly back at its intrusive visitor as if it was unsure of her intentions. 

It suddenly caught Kaiden off guard how final this act would be. There could be absolutely no going back once the grim task was done. The blade 
would sever everything, all she was up to this point. In a moment, it would be all over. 

But all the miser,' would end too she had to remind herself Bolstering her resolve with this idea, Kaiden repeated the phrase in her head like a mantra. 
She pushed her thumb against the little silver cross on the cardboard case and slid the insert back. Then, pinning the tool beneath her iron gaze, Kaiden withdrew it 
and flipped open the longest, most wicked looking blade in the whole tool. This was it. It was almost over, Kaiden remarked to herself as she sat down on the edge 
of her floor mattress. She carefijlly placed the small, evil, miserable little black book in her lap and stared at it one last time. She hated that book and its grip on her. 
More so, she despised the misery therein that she couldn't overcome. One day, others would read the overwhelming sorrows nestled within those vile pages and 
understand. For now, though, Kaidens time with it was over. 

The young woman raised the knife as her white knuckles shook with the sheer emotional strain. She had to be absolutely sure of this. Kaiden had never 
been so sure of anything in her life, she told herself, as she brought the blade down swiftly, mercilessly. 

With a sickening squish, the knife pierced her misery, impaling it cover to cover with three and a half inches of low carbon stainless steel. 
Kaiden sighed. 
It was done. 

A wave of relief washed over her as she casually wriggled her argyle-socked feet into her pre-laced Sambas and strode out of her apartment. Usually, Kaiden hated 
cliches with a passion, but it really was a beautiful day for a walk. 


Though memories leave the trees 

With branches thin and bare 

And winters snow 

coats it's boughs 

hiding dreams and cares 

Behold! In spring 

Whenbluebirds sing 

And budding leaves are shown 

That memories lost 

are bom a new 

More vivid 

Bright and 


Craig J Laudicina 


by: Craig J Laudicina 

Every child is an artist. The problem is 

how to remain an artist once we grow up. 

- Pablo Picasso 

I 7 : Molly Chesnut 

Photograph by: Beth Shulz 

What do you see? 
Without your eyes? 

I've seen my soul 
Where my beauty lies 

I've seen my truth 
Rising to the sky 

I've witnessed my strength 
In the tallest ekn 

My passions are held 
In the rays of the sun 

For, they'vebumtmy own skin 
And turned my values golden 

What have I seen? 
Without my eyes? 

I've seen life. 
Where life lies. 

by: Jamie HoUis 

Genocide City Zone 
By Darius McCaskey 

welcome to the genocide city 


Fm sure you'll enjoy your stay 

we've been killing folks here 

all the live long day 

if you want to join us 

you'll have to pay the price 

your soul's the cost, so ante up 

c'mon and shoot the dice 

welcome to the genocide city 


everyone's dying to get in 

ignore your guilty conscience 

though Jesus says it's a sin 

if you do not join us 

you'll have to pay the price 

sacrifice your life tonight 

to our deadly new device 

welcome to the genocide city 


check out time is soon 

we only stop once a day 

to eat our lunch at noon 

if you want to join them 

we're happy to grant your request 

just remember one thing: 

we kill with the best 

Genuine poetry can communicate before it is 


- T.S. Eliot 


By: Allison Thompson 

I need a new playtoy 

I think mine is broken 

I got it brand-new 

I could touch it,kiss it, 

caress it, lay in it's arms 

And walk away when I 

am finished playing. 

Sometimes I would play 

with it for days on end. 

Sometimes not for weeks 

And it worked just fine. 

Then the other day my playtoy 

said it wanted to be more than just friends. 

I didn't mean to break it 

I don't know how 1 did it 

But I need a new playtoy. 

Photographs by Craig J Laudicina 


Drawing by Rachel Bommer 


By: Ann Cline 

My grandma doesn't bake me cookies and my 

mother doesn't sew. 

My father don't bring home the bacon, but it's all 

right, ya know? 

My stars don't always shine at night and my birds 

don't always sing. 

And sometimes in my deck of cards, there's a 

queen without her king. 

My sun likes to fall straight from the sky with the 

moon right close behind. 

But it's all good. 

I have a plan 

to get everything back in line. 

I'll make my grandma some cookies; a batch oh 

so divine. 

And I'll knit my mom a fuzzy scarf and bring 

father home a swine, 

I'll polish the stars so they can twinkle. 

r 11 sing my birds a song. 

I find the queen's beloved king, so the royal family 

can live on. 

I'll pick up the sun, throw back the moon, and 

gather all the rays. 

Then I'll put them up there good and tight so they 

never stray. 

And when I'm done I'll take a nap, and dreams of 

cookies, scarfs and swine. 

Songs that twinkle, moons that laugh, and kings 

who always shine. 

The aim of art is to represent not the 

outward appearance of things, but their 

inward significance. 


"Another Sunday" 

By Julie Smith 

The heavy wood door slams on the sunshine 
behind the chubby girl as she enters the bar behind her 
father. The smoke instantly penetrates her freshly 
washed blonde hair and bums her blue eyes. There's 
dark paneling nailed to the wall and it bleeds yellow 
drops of nicotine. Sunlight only penetrates the darkness 
through small spaces of glass not covered by the latest 
beer sign perched high in the windowsill . As she 
walks with her father to his familiar stool, her feet 
stick to the beer-stained floor. The blue-eyed girl takes 
her father's quarters and leaves him at the bar. As the 
neon jukebox cries out a somber song, she moves to 
the pinball machine and disappears into the comer. 

Trying desperately to look older than her 13 years, she 
sucks in her stomach and smacks her glossed lips together 
as she surveys the scene she knows so well. Her clear, 
focused eyes meet eyes that are glazed, red and distracted. 
There are greasy haired men with chains connecting their 
wallets to their Levis; men proudly displaying their faded 
Harley Davidson T-shirts under black leather jackets; men 
holding Marlboro cigarettes between their thumb and 
index finger, adding stains of nicotine to their dirt-filled 
nails. Long fingered women with blood red nails and 
bleached hair line the bar. Their cheap cigarettes hide 
inside black leather cases with turquoise stones. 

She hears drunken laughs from the bar as the 
men and women begin to slur their words. They talk of 
their plans and hopes and dreams while their legs grow 
roots into the stool they balance on. Every Sunday, they 
declare endless thoughts and ideas that are never 
realized. They are only words that hang heavy in the 
smoky air, soon to fall to the floor and be swept up at the 
end of the night. The words stop only when their lips 
press against their drinks. They sit, blind to the dmnken 
mistakes they will make and oblivious to their 
tomorrow's filled with searing sharp headaches and 

The minutes turn to hours and hours blend 
together as twilight lurks at the window. The tired girl fills 
herself with pop and chips as she grows restless. Her 
father's quarters have been fed to the machines in the bar 
and her pleas to leave grow with intensity. Finally 
convincing him, she leads the way out. Her father 
stumbles his heavy frame behind her. Too eager to flee the 
bar that her Sunday has been wasted in; she fails to 
realize her shelter is now 2,000 pounds of steel and metal 
that her drunk father drives her home in. She doesn't 
realize it until the car swerves off the road, that she longs 
for the safety of the dismal bar she just escaped. 

by : Craig J Laudicina 

Painting, n. : The art of protecting flat surfaces 

from weather, and exposing them to the critic. 

- Ambrose Bierce 

Photograph by : Craig J Laudidna 



Heces felling 


Crashing stars 

Have blind-sided day 


Gentle as a kiss. 

A simple cloud 



Yet europhic mind 

In and out 

Of concience time. 

Bitten nails. 

Purple eyes. 

Sleepless nights 

Awaken beautiful lies 

My deepest desire... 


Is for a simple sting 


Picture Perfection 

By Dena Sherman 

you want me perfect 

you want me normal 

I put eye-shadow 

to highlight eyes that are dead 

eyeliner to cover sleepless nights 

mascara as a shield from tears 

blush to color cold, pale cheeks 

painted lips for a perfect smile 

put on a show 

here's your picture 

it says a thousand words 

but isn't worth the pain it speaks 

All you need is 


Photograph by: Elton Trojinar 

Artwork by: Andrea Wagner 

The Mountain 

by Allison Thompson 

Free emd wild I ran down the road 

Hiding all fears I stood tall alone 

1 ran for years till your road crossed with mine 

The warmth of your hand made my eyes shine 

Four eyes turned two 

Watching our road through blitzing eyes of blue 

Two hearts turned one 

Our soles on the road, our souls on the run 

The road would end if we stopped too long 

We both were determined, we both were strong 

The road went on straight, only a couple of turns 

TiU one day our road split in two 

Clyde by: Craig J Laudicina 

Photoi:;raphs by: Cathleen Stark 


There was room on each road for two hearts that believed or room on each road for one heart with a need 
You chose your own road and I chose mine 
With belief they would cross, it would only take time 
Scared on my own I kept to the side 
Out in the middle left no place to hide 

After some time, I found courage within 

Quickened my pace, kept my face to the wind 

Saw turns in the road, but continued to fight 

Then came my mountain and my heart filled with fright 

I reached out my hand and touched the cold stone 

I cried out for you and felt so alone 

I retraced my steps and crawled back down my road 

I gave up the fight, heavy guilt filled my load 

To my surprise, your road quickly arrived 

So much time had gone by, it couldn't be right you 

were still standing there with eyes empty of life 

You chose not to choose, it was easier that way 

Reliving your past, you passed your days 

Aglow from your face faintiy shone eyes of blue 

They were dosed to reality with your self doubting glue 

I pried open your eyes and showed you the direction 

But you just stared at me, said you needed affection 

It was too hard to handle, too much risk to take 

Once running fast, you slammed on the brakes 

You reached out your hand, said don't leave me again 

You hated your life and needed a friend 

I told you of the mountain that you needed to climb 

I promised if you did, on the other side you'd be mine 

You dung to my sould and ripped at my heart 

You didn't understand you had to make your own start 

I kissed your cracked lips, reached under your arms and 

gave you a lift .Then turned to my road, blood rushing 

from my heart as it ripped Now I'm back to my mountain 

with one foot on her back Clinging to the stone and not 

looking back I pray that you make it, hope you find the 

right road 1 pray that 1 see you there and have you to hold 

Photograph by Craig J Laudicina 

Drawing is the honesty of the art. There is no possibility of 

cheating. It is either eood or bad. 

- Salvador Dali 


By: Ms Virginia Schmidt 

The endless 
liquid motion. 
The rolling 

up and down 
over and under, 
with light, 
and dark, 
and foam and fish, 
and birds and debris, 
the mountainous 
in motion, 

forever and ever, 
never resting 

never stopping, 
loud and crashing, 

twisting and tumbling, 
with a magnitude of sound 

not unlike 
the cymbals of a marching 

And then, 

the quiet times, 
and serene, 
calming and soothing, 
softly, softly 
pouring its treasures 
the waiting sand, 

with effortless motion 

on and on, 
to kiss the shores, 
and caress 

Artwork by: Andrea Wagner 

its beaches 
with tender ripples. 

I walk 

in solitude 
and gather strength 

to reach 
potential for the next plateau. 

A poet can survive everything 

but a misprint. 

- Oscar Wilde 



^H^ii^ — -^ 


^»s ifpiii 


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^^^ t'-^^^fmi 







By Justin Ofeleia 



i can see perfect, snow falling, feathering, december night, darker you in one of your sweaters, you, angel 
in yellow streetlight, just my kind of perfect, i keep that image, to rest, i wake up wanting sleep again, where 
december keeps me warm, where you see me. forget them, forget everyone, i offer my hand and you 
take it. where its all dark, and snow, and yellow Hght. you in your sweater, and me really alive. j 

By Ryan Grove 

I've got my mind set 

on you - this is going to 

take a miracle 


by Craig J Laudicina 

Click, click, clackity, clack! 

The sound of the keys as the editors hack! 

Red ink becomes a thing of the past 

Computers present new difficulties 
^expletive deleted"*" 
^expletive deleted* 
^expletive deleted* 
^expletive deleted* 

^expletive deleted * 


Artwork by Rachel Bommer 

Quiet Is A Five Letter Word 

By: Jackie Sundby 

After the last guest has been greeted 

and shared tears have mingled. 
After last eulogies have been pronounced 

and hymn refrains hang sweetly in the air. 
After the hearse winds its way to the cemetery 
and bugle-taps no longer echo. 

After the lowering into the black hole 

and last shovels of dirt have been deposited. 
After the last car has departed 
and darkness falls. 
Quiet is inside the coffin. 
Quiet is a five letter word: Death 
When wasted, arthrific bodies are no longer 
and an old soul is free of its earthliness. 

When youngsters with tumors give up the fight 
and maimed accident victims succumb. 
When the heart stops beating 

and the breath is gone. 
Quiet is a five letter word: Peace 


There's no art to 

construction in the 


- Lady MacBeth 


Photographs by: 

Craig J Laudicina, & 

Jason Huntress. 

Artwork by 

Tiffanie Townsend 

Photograph by Craig J Laudicina 

Green Binds 
By: Sarah Reed 

Cold in the lot. 

rusted face clings to grace. 

While etching the copper trace I remember. 

That I remember. 


Limb through my limb hangs the naked day. 

I fight dust, 

trace and trace the planned moments of hand. 

Hands fill my head 

Cold in the lot 

Desperation to associate the shoulder beneath head 

Copper on my face now rusts to my chest, 

weighs the heave, 

the sigh, 

the ghost of relief 

Drop lost stones each place, 

dive blades of grass to inspire, 

drive weak sun rays to firm yellow. 

Open my mouth to the rise of orange sun, 

filled by rust, 

let go my relief, 

filled by o stride driven, until green wakes. 

Drawing by: Rachel Bommer 

True art is characterized by an irre- 
sistible urge in the creative artist. 
- Albert Einstein 

Typical Dutch 

When you are in Holland 
Don't forget your wooden shoes 

When you want to relax 
Go to a coffee shop 

If you are hungry 
Buy some cheese 

If you want to have sex 
Go to the red light district 

Do you like sports 
Soccer is your game 

Do you come in the winter 
Bring your skates 

And if you are smart 
Go to school 

Christy- Ann, Tommy, and Jeroen 


Darkness, darkness all around 

I, alone in the darkness 

In all this darkness, nothing can be found 

I am alone in this mess 

Your hands caress my back 

I turn around, looking for you 

My angel, my love, my damnation? 

For you, there is nothing I would not do 

I hunger for you, my obsession 

My obsession . . . No, addiction 

Will you ever go away? 

My addiction 

My damnation 



On the horizon, 

I see windmills 

On the water, 

I see ducks 

On the land, 

I see farmers 

On my bread, 

I see cheese 

I love my country, 

I love Holland 

Hendri, Leyla, Marly, and Nick 

As the poet said, "Only God can make a tree," probably because it's so 

hard to figure out how to get the bark on. 

-Woody Allen 

The true work of art is but a shadow of the divine perfection. 


A work of art is the unique result of a unique temperment. 

- Oscar Wilde 

The Lamenting of the Beansighe (Banshee) 

16*^ November 2002 

I'd rather be an optimist and a 

fool, than a pessimist and right. 

- Unknown 

byJustinR Romine 

In the darkness of the night 

There can be heard a wail 

Tis carried over the trees in flight 

Upon the fearful gale 

For when you are old and gray 

Or even when life is waning 

Comes the time; even the day 

The Banshee comes a screamin' 

She laments for you; it's true 

Your spirit is for her taking 


Her carriage comes a shreakin' 

Now if s time; your final ride 

Has stopped for your taking 

At the door; your time you bide 

The first step is hard makin' 

Once inside; her cries subside 

You continue on your journey 

You realize; that you've died 

From the Howling of the Banshee 


The Message of This Place 
by Sarah Doiel 

Everything went wrong, 

But the wait won't be long, 

Stand up, be strong. 

Fight like a man. 

Do all that you can. 

You should never fail... 

Don't be pressured. 

Deal with your own issue, 

You can't have a problem, 

Take the money and rob 'em 

Do what it takes to make it to the top. 

Walk all over everyone, never stop. 

You won't find satisfaction 

Until your reaction 

Entails misery and discontentment... 

Fill your life with entertainment. 

Work hard, never get a penny. 

Your spouse won't give you any. 

Love is little but lust is many. 

Save nothing and you spend plenty. 

Give yourself away. 

Save the blues for another day 

When it rains 

And you try to explain 

Why in the world 

Your life left you screwed. 

You have nothing left 

And everyone's deaf 

To other peoples melancholy... 

So suck it up and try to get by. 

And do all this before you die. 

Pookey Sleeping 

Eyes shut wide open 

Photo by Pat Garrison 

by Mellissa Isham 

Eyes shut wide open, I transcended from a dream, and woke up crying. Non-suicide death letter sent via dreams. 
Airmail from heaven to nightmarish scene. A scene of discontentment and torn. Between truth and relate of message, of 
maybe pretend illusions that will shake the hearts and minds of many. Many who live- and as of right now. die a little. 
Miles, hours away from comfort and familiarity. Instead they drown themselves in non-rejuvenating atmospheres and 
what they refer to as non-harsh drugs. In surreal lives where they routinely try to find themselves in the midst of 
conformity everyday. And after a weekend of parting there last teen years away- they wake in hangovers to the worst 
truth and reality. They wake to death. A boy once lost now found, by god maybe. In Page Park, with syringe in pocket 
and nature bedside, he walked to lay his head down for life, and watched the sun rise as he last fell. Maybe he found 
beauty in his last attempt to avoid the everyday from loved ones advice to get a clue and straighten up. Maybe, in his 
death came doubt. By all who once believed in life, in hope, in god, in beauty, in rebirth, in music, in him. Because he 
faded to lack of self-awareness lack of availability-to advice. To truly hear the "please stop". And I can't help but cry for 
the many who woke to disbelief and shock. Because they loved him, they loved his music, some his lips in years of 
memories, all his art. Dead, but so much more can be said, but words become blurry through visions of autumn grounds 
and a boy, laying naked in his own skin on his own truth for all to see and for all to grieve, curled in a ball, thin and 
hopeless, beauty and maybe now some sigh of relief. To those who forgot how to sleep at night because he decided to 
throw his life away, and it'd be nice for many to think that excuses could be made for this mid-western tragedy. But I 
fear only anger and non-enlightenment will arise from the loss of 'this life. Romantic rock star lives that breathe only 
surreal, invisible, non-realities. . .lead to death. I lay bedside to beauty that I sometimes truly forget to appreciate, and my 
entire soul is saddened because many once laid bedside to beauty that slowly killed himself, and I wonder what there 
lives will hold now. What their sleep will be like, what visions and memories will feel like, and how many people will 
now put down the essence of cop out chemicals- drugs. Because a life was taken- and then I weep because I fear that 
this may only enhance many in their nearly overnight overdosing, because they forgot years back how to deal with life, 
and now they have less reason to live. I refuse to become jaded, and cross my fingers that all whom were affected 
accept the same hope, after the years it will take to make this into an overcome obstacle. 

Never Forever Again 

by: AnnCline 

I know that nothingness is inevitable 

When you say you're leaving 

Into the sunset of my tomorrow. 

I pray you hold me once more. 

Tell me it's all fine. 

Make this go away. 

But you've lied straight to my marrow 

And you've made me a believer 

Of what you believed. 

Goodbyes are forever 

And you've made this 

A day to remember. 

A day that Angels will cry 

Because their wings are torn. 

Their halos lost. 

And their eyes shed decaying starlight 

Into that which once was forever. 

But now will never be again. 

Artwork by 


\ Panyanouvong 


by: David Ballard 

Whoi I'm lost 

And all 1 feel is dark 

You open up the sky 

Pour light into my heart 

Though sorrow is my burden for tonight 

Joy will come 

With the morning sun 

I know it's true 

Though I feel so far from you 

But you say come 

We'll walk in the sand 

111 show you what I am 

Though sorrow is my burden for tonight 

Joy will come 

Wth the morning sun. 


Craig J 





/'"^IJ^I^' BASKETBAl.I. 

7- * 


Cz .^. 




by Sarah Doiel 

I was a stranger in a land not my own 
Where they spoke a language I have never known. 
Their rituals I have never understood clearly, 
Or why they drove out others yearly. 

In their voices I had heard 
What seemed to be another world. 
Sometimes I would lie awake at night 
Pondering if to stay was right. 
Then one day I would set my mind 
To a place I knew I should find. 

Forever Dream 

by Ann Cline 

Why does love slip away? 

Made by night, leaves by day? 

In one moment, passed by time 

All your love is no longer mine. 

First we kiss and then we part. 

But that mere kiss contained my heart. 

For at that moment I do stand 

And hold your soul wdthin my hand. 

It slips so softly, so it seems. 

Deep in love; Forever dreams. 

m make of you that which is mine 

And love a love so dream divine. 

But then the mom wiU come shine through 

To make mere memory of my darUng you. 

So while I weep and kiss you sweet 

I pray again that we shall meet. 

For I find love, so it seems. 

Only in forever dreams. 

Photographs by: Craig J Laudicina 


Pools of sorrow collect in the valleys of our regret 

Looking to her life, as she's dying, with a smile 

Wishing I was far from here 

Anyplace I haven't been to yet 

Mumbles from a silly mouth 

That sprouts from a confined soul 

I wander around circling 

But there's nowhere left to go 

Every word I want to say has been spoken 

\nd every feeling that captivates me keeps my words prisoner as well 

Looking into the eyes of death makes life so much more clear 

The melancholy cries slowly disappear 

There's no explanation 

No equation 

No escape 

There's just here 

There's just now 

And thats how I'm going to leave it 

So close the door now 

Soft and sweet 

Leave me here now 

Until again we meet 



-^ ■% 

l-l:M^ -^ > 




Pl^^^ W ^ 




From The Otherside Dreams 

By Ayo Paige Carter 

I choose to say and hear. 

I had many dreams. 

I think I am good enough for sake's 


The most magnificent love of it all 

in courage of in trust. 

Such bountiful glories. 

StUl sick from the fire. 

life between two worlds. 

Frantic desires can masquerade. 

Judges Requitted even more so. 

Just no characters, just no plot. 

Not much to say, I am feeling sad. 

I have fallen. 

Photograph by Molly Chesnut 

Perspective Change 

Shades down 
Infinite beauty exists. 
Autumn aromas fill this spiritual void- 
That I once longed for anything, even cheapness. So that relevancy would replace 
I sit in the middle of season change. 

As leaves faU-or dances rather -one by one-slowly 

As if their souls were breathing in every aspect of life. 

That occupied the air they whispered through. 

1 possess a little fear while reminisdng- 

As 1 almost became so slightly jaded over the course 

Of my bumpy life. 
But, 1 didn't want to miss the seasons. . . 
The autumn leaves- 
Cozy atmospheres, love, pumpkins, mash potatoes 

Chili and 'sugar coated mamas' apple pie- 
Childhood memories of sitting by the furnace on Benton- 

Pretending homelike qualities occupied the chaotic Hving 

Space I called house. 
So now 1 breathe in this simplistic nature, beauty of a land. 

Lying on my back- 
Eyes open- 
I stop dreaming of what 1 wish life could be. Because at this moment I feel complete. 

The air is still- 

The sky a canvas. . . 

Beauty told me so yesterday 

After we made love with our lips, our eyes and we to exchanged souls- 

Under this very life 1 fulfill a dream. 
1 wish everyone in the universe this very moment- 

Because unlike the cooperate, typical, secure life- 
This is what matters- 
This is life changing- 
This is pure energy- 
This is honesty- 
1 could dance as the winds and mid-October 

Make me feel beautiful- 

And pretty- that I don't mind. 


The Holy Order of Ralph 

by: Richard Pulf er 

Things To Do 

Get up in the morning. 
Get breakfast. 
Get dressed. 
Get Uf e back together. 
Get flaming sword. 

Read Psalms. 
Read Proverbs. 
Read Revelations. 
Read Far Side Strips. 

Wash dirt off hands. 
Wash oil off face. 
Wash dandruff off hair. 
Wash spots off car. 
Wash scales off wings. 

Photographs by Craig J Laudicina 

Smite the urge to eat. 
Smite the sloth to slack. 
Smite the spur to spar. 
Smite the lust to love. 
Smite the devU again. 

Consult Cciin for anger management issues. 
Consult Beezlebub for anti-virus software. 
Consult Helcate for stock tips. 
Consult Bable for network infrasture. 
Consult Ludfer for free advice. 

Call BiUy for insurance policy. 
Call Bob for accounting stats. 
Call Dante for website info. 
Call Virgil for directions. 
Call Promethusforpain killers. 


Tear off today's Far Side Comic. 

Sign out, check out, log out, punch out... 

Fall from grace 

Repeat steps 1A9. Rinse and lather 

Artwork by: Jason "I got your back" Huntress 

Voices Editors: Molly Chesnut, Kelsey Barrick, Jason Berger, James Dewitt, Sarah Doiel, Morgan Ekem, 
Sheila Fields, Hayley Grtndle, Ryan Grove, Jamie HoUis, MeUissa Isham, Lorraine O'Beime, MoUy F*ierce, 
Richard I\ilf er, Diana Ramirez, Sarah Reed, EHda Ross 
AUisonTompson, and Bryan West, with Jason Huntress, 
and with much thanks to Craig Laudidna. 
Apologies if there's anyone we failed to mention. 
J Thanks to you all. 




Sarah Doiel 

winner of 
this issue's 


Grand Prizes 




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